Numb3rs: Black Swan (Part One)
by moonswept
Summary: When somebody from a case from Don's past suddenly makes problems for the team nearly a year later, the results are deadly. With Don already loosing confidence in his FBI work and struggling to stay in line with protocol, this investigation will push him, and everybody else, to their limits. WARNINGS: Don whump, possible Colby whump NOTE: Set a few episodes after 5x11
1. Prologue

**So this is my first Numb3rs fanfiction. I absolutely adore the show, Don being a huge reason. Any Num3rs story that I write will (most likely) be centered around him. He's such an interesting character. Brave and strong, but unsure and dark at the same time. I hope you enjoy, feedback of any kind is appreciated.**

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**Time setting: Placed a few months after the event of episode 5x11 "Arrow of Time" (so a couple episodes later)**

**Genre: Action/Adventure & Hurt/Comfort**

**Note: This story includes references to Season Four's episode "Black Swan", using the same story and one or two of the characters. But this story is like the consequences of that case almost a year later.**

**Warnings: Don whump, possible Colby whump, plenty of angst to go around**

**Disclaimer: All rights go to the writers and creators of the original show. I do not own any characters.**

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**Prologue**

_**Don Eppes**_

Don's eyes snapped open. A single, muted light flooded his vision and he was momentarily disoriented. He shook his head and looked around, blinking, trying to remember where he was.

The familiar outline of desks against the dark room was all he needed to recognize the FBI bullpen.

His feet were propped up on his personal desk, shoes still on. The light came from his junky old lamp that stood by his computer, whose screen was filled by the Bureau's seal. It was a mandatory screensaver for all department issued tech.

Don sniffed once, kicking his feet off the desk and sitting forward. He rolled his sore neck, which had been lolled backwards over the chair while he slept. He peered into the dark edges of the office, finding no late night stragglers hunched, scribbling over case files.

He sighed and rubbed at itching eyes with his fingers. He put his head down and propped his forearms on his knees.

So, what? He fell asleep while working, hence the dimly lit and still processing computer screen. A file was opened, its documents strewn in a fan next to his keyboard, a dull pencil laying across the paper.

Don sat up abruptly and leaned closer to the beam of yellow light that his lamp cast over his portion of the cubicle. He raised his wrist to his straining eyes and read the time.

3:20 am.

He muttered to himself softly, still working on getting his bearings back. The last agents had probably left two or three hours ago, at the latest. And the last time he had check his watch it had been half an hour before 11 o'clock.

His team had still been at their respective desks, reviewing the details of their newest case and soaking up the information to put to use the next morning. Nobody had woken him.

Not that it would've really mattered, he probably wouldn't have bothered getting up anyways. His jacket was draped over the glass section of the wall to his left and his phone was facedown next to a nearly empty coffee cup.

Thoughts of Buck Winters and Crystal Hoyle began to race across his mind again. Detailed images, perfect recollection of every conversation that had taken place during both investigations. It happened frequently whenever he was left alone to his thoughts.

It had been more than two months since Buck had escaped prison. Two months that marked the time that Special Agent Don Eppes had officially cracked. He kept it well hidden, letting feelings of persistent vexation and remoteness writhe silently inside of him.

But despite his efforts to conceal it, there was talk around the office. Hushed gossip over a lunch in the break room, and whispers passed from mouth to mouth. He was quicker to rise to anger against both suspects and colleagues. The look of intense passion as well as impartiality in his eyes was not missed by others as he walked down the halls, grilled a witness, or sat smoldering quietly during dinner.

It was years in the making though. After all, didn't everybody who did his kind of work have some kind of unshakable run-in with the truth?

Don was spiraling. His team knew it, his family knew it. Worst of all, he knew it.

Years of solving kidnappings, chasing serial killers and rapists, gunning down terrorists was weighing on him. Nobody could see the type of things he saw daily and not have some cracks in their foundation.

It started with Charlie sending that _stupid _email to Pakistani scientists. Yeah, he believed that what he had done was right. But that didn't make it _right. _Especially not in the eyes of the FBI.

The investigation and attack into Don's career drove him closer to the edge. It was no secret that he turned to what many considered to be 'unethical' methods when his back was against the wall.

And being certain that he was about to burn for those choices, that had almost destroyed him. But he'd gotten off the hook, dodged a potentially career decimating bullet.

But the gun was still loaded.

The warning had been clear. Continuation of impulsive and unprofessional tactics would result in disciplinary action. But Don hadn't quit his ways, not really.

In fact, they'd gotten worse. Infecting his attitude and his interaction with others. He couldn't react fast enough when that stroke of rage flashed through him, igniting his nerves. Don couldn't stop himself in time to keep their suspect's head from cracking against a solid object.

And he hated himself for it.

He'd told Nikki to be better than him, and he meant every word. Reacting like he did was a surefire way to get a budding agent like herself kicked out of the office.

But he was lost.

He had been completely withdrawn from all social activity in the week immediately following Buck's escape and capture.

When Buck came after him for shooting Crystal, Don had secluded himself far away from everybody else. He hadn't confided in his brother, he hadn't actively participated in the investigation, he hadn't told his team a thing until he gave David five minutes to scramble a tac-team. He'd withheld information as he contacted the distraught 19 year old _four times_. He'd ordered a colleague, a friend, to keep his finger off the trigger no matter what happened.

Because he didn't want to kill the kid.

The look of soul-wrenching anguish that filled Buck's young eyes as he pleaded with Don to kill him. There was nothing left to live for in his mind, and his desperation for death had shaken every agent in the temple.

Don just couldn't forget.

Alan worried about him. He was scared of Don's detachment to the world and the things going on around him.

Charlie grappled with him about the choices he made to shut the people closest to him out of his life, without Don actually consciously making that decision. His brother was trying to understand him, his anger and his disinterest.

Don scratched the corner of his nose suddenly and rose from his chair. As it spun behind him, exhaustion and dizziness hit like a sack of bricks. He didn't think that he could make it to the elevator, much less his apartment.

He flipped the light out, plunging the floor into darkness. He grabbed his jacket from it's perch and maneuvered his way through the maze of desks, with enough moonlight leaking through the windows to navigate safely. Don pushed his way into the dark war room and fell heavily into one of the soft, flexible office chairs.

He thought about what the other agents would think when they learned that he'd spent the night alone in the office. He thought about the messages that were undoubtedly left on his phone by Robin, or Charlie, or Alan. They'd probably had dinner plans that he'd forgotten about, thanks to his attempt to wrap up the last of his work.

Don propped his shoes up on the table and relaxed into the leather cushions, placing the fabric of his jacket over his closed eyes.

As he listened to the low drone of the vents above, he started to slip into a broken sleep. Where his thoughts didn't stop swirling with restless memories and unsettled regrets.

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**~ Izzy**


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**_Don Eppes_**

As it turned out, Don woke up for good less than two hours later.

Predawn light provided adequate enough illumination to brighten the still empty office, casting hues of slate gray and husky pink on the walls and floor.

Don found his jacket in a heap underneath the swivel office chair that had served abysmally as a temporary bed for the night. He stood slowly and arched his stiff back in a stretch, groaning as several knots made themselves manifest in his lower neck and shoulders.

He stooped to retrieve his fallen fleece and ran the material through his hands absently, then returned to full height and set it on the top of the conference table.

Don exited the war room and gazed thoughtfully around the FBI bullpen.

Despite his dark and depressing train of thought a few hours previous, he was feeling unusually optimistic. After all, it had been three in the morning, and an extreme lack of sleep could lead anybody to make things more dramatic than they actually were.

In a couple hours, the city of Los Angeles' finest agents would walk off those elevators and sit down to work. These were people dedicated to solving crime, and willing to risk their lives in the process.

He had a team of trustworthy, determined agents. They spent almost every waking hour together. They wracked their brains over a complicated investigation. They vented frustration out on each other during a particularly difficult case. They put their lives in each other's hands on a day-to-day basis, trusting that their backs were being well guarded. They celebrated success and mourned loss.

They weren't a group of people with the same assignments, forced to work together. They were a team. And in the FBI, team is family.

How could he not take comfort in that?

Don yawned largely, his vision whitening and objects in his line of sight began to warp and become fuzzy. He fought the pressure behind his eyes. He may have slept, but it was only for five or so hours, and not even in something as remotely comfortable as a bed.

He made a beeline for the break room, which was gradually brightening as the sun rose further above the horizon outside. Don started a pot of coffee, ripping at the paper packet with his teeth while slapping the flat of his palm with a wooden stirrer.

As the brew boiled and heated, Don leant against the counter, straightening creases from his black slacks and smoothing permanent wrinkles from his crumpled shirt. Maybe not the best idea ever; to spend the night at the office.

When the coffee was ready, he poured a generous serving into a tall, insulated paper cup. Don used his back to shove out of the small lounge, one hand holding the cup, the other stirring the drink. The cup was warm in his hands and his first sip smacked caffeine induced energy into his body. Even though it was a temporary effect, Don was glad when the heavy fatigue eased.

He wandered in the direction of his cubicle, letting his thoughts drift to the new case. He placed his coffee to the left of his keyboard and lowered himself into the chair in front of the computer. A blinking light near the bottom of the screen indicated that the computer was sleeping, and Don shook his mouse briskly across the desk to wake it up.

When the screen flashed to life, Don squinted at the document that was already pulled up on the desktop. He bit the tip of his thump unconsciously as he sifted through the case file.

A call early yesterday morning from an LAPD lieutenant had brought Don and his team to a crime scene only minutes after the sun had risen. They had soon found why their team had been called in so urgently.

A marked police cruiser was still recognizable beneath the blistered metal and paint, though the same couldn't be said for its driver. Officer Daniel Park had been the murder victim of a car bomb, the second killing in one month.

The FBI had jurisdiction over any high profile case, and cop killers definitely qualified. The initial explosion had been enough to kill the man behind the wheel, but the resulting fire triggered a secondary blast as it ignited the fuel in the engine. Evidence Recovery teams were still working to pull workable clues from the remains of the car.

So far, they had no new information and no suspect. All they knew was that this killing was a mirror image of the first dead officer. Detective Noland Swanson's murder had happened in the same way, two explosions, leaving behind no evidence of a trigger or a suspect.

And as of yet, they were still working on making the connection between Swanson and Park, other than working in the same office. They hadn't interacted, them being on different teams in completely different areas of the totem pole.

Him being a detective, Swanson held considerably higher ranking over freshly minted patrol officer Park. Swanson solved homicides and kidnappings, Park issued, well, parking tickets. But, past experience mandated that killers always targeted a specific group of people. An ethnicity, gender, age. So those two had to be connected somehow.

Cop killer cases were always touchy and always about revenge. Something Swanson and Park had done was provoking a deadly reaction from somebody they had affected. And Don's gut was telling him that their were more people involved than these two.

And Don's gut detector had proven rarely to be wrong.

The first agents slipped quietly into the office sometime before 7:00. They nodded politely to Don, who sat typing at his computer, before settling into their own desks and opening up new files.

The hum of clicking keyboards, shuffling papers, general discussion, and ringing phones steadily grew louder as the morning grew older. Elevator doors twanged and opened more frequently, spilling more agents onto the previously empty floor. Full morning sunlight poured through the windows now, basking the office in a natural glow.'

Don was up to refill his drained coffee cup for the third time when he spotted Colby and David emerge from the fresh wave of incoming agents. Colby was juggling three white paper sacks while his partner balanced a cardboard drink carrier in one hand and his phone in the other.

Don recognized the logo on Colby's bag and his stomach gave a rumble of hunger that he hadn't given much thought until now. The pair had stopped at their team's favorite breakfast fix a couple blocks down from the office.

He tossed his cup into the nearest trash bin, grateful to have something other than the mediocre mix that filled the FBI's cabinets this time around. He joined the guys at their shared cubicle just as Colby dumped his load onto his desk.

"I hope one of those is for me." Don greeted without preamble, reaching for a sack.

"Actually," Colby replied, sarcasm already dripping from his tongue. "I was planning on eating all three." But he tossed a meal to his boss, grinning. "Sleep well, Don?"

"Ha." Don exclaimed in dry humor. He peered inside his bag, only to look back up sending David a scathing glare. "Blueberry?"

David held his hands up in surrender and shot Colby a look of exasperation. "I told you, he likes the bran muffin with the brown sugar stuff. Looks like you're paying next time."

"Oh, Colb!" Don whined, crumpling the opening of the sack in his fist. "Just remember who your paycheck comes from next time."

"I -"

But Don was already walking in the direction of the conference room. "Yeah, no. Don't want to hear it. You've got phone duty next week." he tossed back over his shoulder,

visualizing the other agent's expression. "And David, since you seem to be the only reliable one around here, when Nikki gets here come meet in the war room. We've got that new case to brief."

As Don retreated from David and Colby's workspace, the latter's groaned words of complaint reaching his ears, he couldn't keep the beginnings of a smile from twitching in his lips. Team was family, and family shared closer bonds than any other group on earth.

**1234567890987654321**

"Detective Swanson. Killed a little over two weeks ago in an explosion that completely demolished his car." Don paced in front of the projector screen, reiterating the facts in a short and concise summary. His team, with the addition of Charlie, sat at the conference tables, engrossed in the problem. "Yesterday morning, Officer Park went up in the same way. So far we have no leads and no viable connections between the two."

"Right. And if we _are _dealing with a serial killer who's targets are LAPD finest," Colby reasoned out loud, "there has to be a bridge somewhere."

"Well," Charlie sat forward, speaking up. "there's your connection. You know that they were both LAPD officers. Maybe your killer is simply choosing his victims from that police department."

"That's what we originally thought, but the range of employees doesn't fit a serial killer's profile. There are too many people to account for. It could be an arrest approved of by the ranking Chief of Police, or maybe the guy who mops the floor put a dent in another guy's car." David explained, gesturing with his hands to add emphasis. "But the thing is, we can't find a relation between Swanson and Park."

Nikki kicked her booted feet onto the table, throwing the case file onto the glass. "Right. One guy had an office on the third floor of the LAPD building, managing an organized crime squad. The other one didn't even have a cubicle in the building and was busy checking parking meters. As far as we know, these two didn't even cross paths."

"Well they must've at some point, otherwise they would both still be breathing." Don rebounded, deep in thought. "Nikki and David, I want you two to start digging up everything you can. I want to know which cases Swanson worked, I want to know how many tickets Park handed out. I want everything, what brand or toilet paper they used, the color of their toothbrush. Something has got to link them together. Colby, you're with me. We're going to go to the first victim's house and take a look around."

The words had barely come out of his mouth before his team sprang into action. Nikki and David headed with purpose out the glass doors, already discussing different ways to tackle their research.

Colby passed Don saying, "I'll meet you in the parking lot in five. I've got to grab my jacket."

Don nodded after him, his mind still wrapped around the enigma that had been handed to him.

Charlie ambled slowly around the front wall, rereading sheets of information and tapping his chin with a finger thoughtfully. "You know, I could run a computer simulation with Amita using the list of jobs that Nikki and David come up with."

"Oh yeah? What'll that get us?"

"Well, it'll sort through the data, removing everything that has no significance to any other piece of information. But it _will _leave behind possible connections between Detective Swanson and Officer Park."

"What do you mean, '_possible_'?" Don asked, not entirely focused.

"I mean, it might come up with an arrest Swanson made that through a series of random events ties Park to a car he pulled over three months earlier. Neither has any impact on the other. But the good news is that there will still be only a few options, the simulation is extremely selective." Charlie smiled expectantly at his older brother, waiting for his response.

"Okay, sounds good Chuck." Don agreed gratefully. "Give me a call when you've got something, yeah?"

He turned to leave, but Charlie's almost passive voice stopped him. "Are you okay? You didn't come by the house for dinner last night."

Don shook his suit jacket on and studied his watch impatiently. "Uh, yeah. I just got caught up with work."

Charlie continued with caution, sensing his brother's change of mood. He noticed the lines of exhaustion in Don's face and the way he seemed distant from conversation. "When was the last time you got a good night's sleep?"

Don shrugged, still facing away from Charlie. "I don't know. I slept here last night, caught a few hours before I got called to a crime scene at five in the morning the night before. Other than that, I can't really remember."

But the mathematician was still hanging over the fact that Don hadn't even had time to go home last night. "Why didn't you go home? Everybody needs sleep, even you."

"Yeah, well." Don shoved his hands into his pockets, finally turning to look at Charlie with resoluteness in his gaze. "I sleep too much, people die. That's just the way my job goes. Everybody here probably gets five or six hours of sleep a night, at the most. I'm

not the only one who decided that camping out at the office was more efficient than driving home. So don't worry about it so much, kid."

He didn't wait for a reply and exited the war room, headed purposefully in the direction of the elevator. Don felt the truth of his brother's concern as it hit him with the renewed heaviness in his head and in the nerves behind his eyes, but his own reply measured the same in honesty.

Every FBI agent fell asleep at night, knowing that by the time they woke up in the morning, somebody would either be dead or missing. So maybe if they slept less, crime would start to decrease. They'd be able too stop murders before they happened or find missing persons quicker. It was an irrational sense of duty that everybody in Don's position felt at one time or another.

Don roused himself from his reverie as he stepped into the empty elevator, switching his thoughts to this seemingly impossible case.

* * *

**~ Izzy**


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

**_Don Eppes_**

Colby and Don rode together in relative silence, each mutely engrossed in the thoughts and ideas over this new investigation that relentlessly attacked them.

Don scrolled through the unopened messages and emails on his work phone, dumping those that contained useless garbaged and filing any info that might become relevant in the future. He massaged his stinging eyes, putting his cell aside and staring at the traffic marks on the road. Reading in the car never failed to reward him with nausea and a pounding headache.

Colby kept one hand lazily on the leather wheel of their black, government issue sedan as the other rested on his gently bouncing knee. His head was leant sideways on the driver's window as he too trained his weary gaze on the empty street they were headed down.

They were making their way to Detective Swanson's home, which was conveniently nestled in the foothills on outskirts of Los Angeles, over an hour's drive from the FBI field office. Their sleek, low riding car wound endlessly through the dry hills, cruising with a dizzying monotony that lulled Don into a semi-consciousness. So far, they had passed a total of three other drivers on the country road.

Why did Swanson have to live so damn far?

Don blinked slowly, yanking his head up from a cupped hand as he realized that he was beginning to drift away in a doze. Movement to his left told him that Colby's knee was still bobbing. The insistent movement hadn't stopped since they'd left the office earlier that morning, and it was twisting Don's last nerve.

Tension building to a near catastrophic level, Don sprang suddenly, lashing out with his hand and fisting his partner's knee.

Unsuspecting, Colby jumped at his boss' impetuous strike. He flinched away, his head smacking unceremoniously against the window as a result. "God!" he yelped. Then he relaxed, rubbing his knee while shooting Don a mutinous look. "What was that for?"

"You're freaking me out." Don replied simply, offering up no other explanation.

Colby huffed a breath of air somewhere between a sigh and a wry chuckle. "You know, there's this new thing going around. It's called talking. I hear that you can ask people to do something before you hit them. You should check it out sometime."

"One more wise crack, I will hit you again."

"I already got the phones next week, anything else would seem tame compared to that. It's cruel and unusual punishment." Colby shot back easily, taking his hand completely off the wheel.

"The wheel, the wheel." Don snapped. He was always edgy when Colby was the one in control of the car. Mainly because he felt like the other man had _zero _control over their tin can that was traveling at speeds of 50 or more miles per hour. "Keep your hands on the _wheel, _Granger."

Colby sat straighter and plant both hands firmly on the steering wheel with exaggerated force. "Better, Mom?"

"When you grow up, you'll make a great driver." Don grumbled back, bending forward to see farther down the road. A lonesome white mailbox curved into view, the painted address barely legible at their distance. "It's coming up on your left, I think. Dirt road."

"I see it." Colby acknowledged, pulling the car into a sickeningly sharp deceleration while directing the tires to a near 90 degree angle to the left. "And just so you know, I only failed my Driver's Ed course once."

Don shook his head, his arms and legs braced against various parts of the sedan's interior so he wouldn't slip too far in his seat. Why he had suggested that Colby drive to Swanson's place was beyond him.

Rock crunched underneath the tires as Colby piloted them down the red dirt driveway. Dust kicked up behind them, billowing thickly in the hot air.

As they crested the hill, a quaint farmhouse became visible in the otherwise empty valley. Their car pulled to a stop alongside the detached, double-car garage. The engine slowed and they both exited the car, testing their cramped legs.

Don looked up at the house, then rechecked the file he had fastened to his clipboard. "Yeah, this is it."

The wooden boards were painted a rustic shade of red, and the wrap around porch sported two rockers and an old swinging bench. The shingles were unlike the typical ones that were found everywhere in the state of California. They were weathered and splintered squares of dark wood, nailed in overlapping rows.

"Cute." Colby noted.

Don trotted up the front steps and entered the code on the electronic padlock that was secured on the door by the LAPD. A small bulb blinked green and he pushed the door open. In Swanson's absence, every utility had been shut off, so a gust of musty air rushed out to greet them.

"They could've at least left the AC on." Colby complained as he moved past Don and further into the house.

The pair granted the small ranch style home a quick search, top to bottom, checking drawers and going through stacks of paper on the late detective's desk. They didn't need to conduct a full blown inspection, that job had been completely by the responding police department's ERTs immediately following Swanson's death. They had turned up empty, so it was unlikely that Don and Colby would discover any evidence either.

After an hour of rummaging around, they met back in the entryway empty handed. "Well that was a bust." Colby surmised. "I can think of better ways to spend three hours than digging through trash."

"Tell me about it." Don mumbled his agreement, turning in a full circle as he cast a final glance around the rooms and halls that were close by. "Let's get out of here, I'm starving."

Colby tilted his head and gestured grandly to the front door, "Don't need to tell me twice."

After making sure that the bolt on the door was engaged, they headed back to their sedan. Don took his place by the driver's side, refusing to endure another hour and a half with Colby behind the wheel.

The younger agent grinned and tossed the keys to Don, walking around the hood to the passenger door. They settled into their seats, Don slid the key into the ignition and turned the engine over. The vehicle purred to life and he eased the car into a smooth reverse and they once again started down the dirt road.

Colby ramped the air conditioning up to its highest setting and the coldest temperature and fresh, icy air blasted their faces through the vents.

Before pulling onto the pavement at the end of the drive, Don parked, gravel shifting beneath the car. He got out, leaving the door open, and headed to the mailbox to make one last check.

Expecting to find it empty, Don barely chanced a glance inside. He was already turning to leave before what he had seen finally registered. Don pulled the aluminum door down all the way and reached inside the box, retrieving a handful of postage.

He stared at the letters in his hand, annoyance with the LAPD taking root in his gut. Don started back to the sedan and waved his findings at Colby, who sat watching from inside.

Don ducked into the car, tugging the door shut behind him and flicked through the mail. "They didn't do a mailbox search." he commented in disbelief. "How do you forget to do a mailbox search?"

But Colby wasn't paying attention. He leaned across the console that separated their two seats and tweezed something from Don's grasp, further down in the stack. He flipped it over in his hands, then showed it to the senior agent.

"This doesn't look like a postcard."

The slip of paper was smaller than the kind that you would've found in a printer. It was maybe the size of a large notecard. It was blank apart from the simple image of a swan above the words printed in a bold, black text. _Black Swan._

"What do you want to bet that we'll find something like this at Daniel Park's place?" Don guessed. "Call David and tell him to let the ERTs who're searching his house to look for that. We'll head back to the office and hand it over to the lab."

Colby nodded, pulling his phone from his pant pocket and dialing up his partner's number. Don threw the car into drive and maneuvered onto the paved street. They began the drive back through the foothills, the sun steadily rising to its highest point in the sky. He listened with one ear to Colby's voice as he spoke to David over the phone, but he was more interested in the card that he now held in his right hand above the steering wheel.

Black Swan. Something about that phrase seemed tantalizingly familiar. A math thing. He'd be sure to talk to Charlie about it later.

It was only a minute after Colby ended his conversation with David that Don's own cell rang. He looked down briefly, extracting the device from his suit pocket with one hand. His brother's caller ID smiled up at him from the screen.

Don accepted the call and pressed the phone to his ear. "Hey, Charlie. What d'ya got?"

Charlie's voice floated over the speakers with the slight undertones of static. They were still pretty far away from civilization and service was poor.

"The simulation's almost done. I should have some results ready when you get back to the FBI." Charlie told him animatedly. "Where are you guys?"

"Colb and I are leaving Swanson's place, we're probably an hour or so out. You can meet up with us at the office and tell us about what you've found." Don said, then his eye landed on the mysterious card. "Oh, and Charlie. Do you remember something about a - a 'black swan'?"

"Uh, yeah." Charlie answered immediately. "It's a statistical term. It's like an unexpected and rare event with severe consequences. Why?"

"Just something Colby and I found. Maybe you used it to help us out during an investigation?" "It sounds familiar," his brother trailed off in thought, "I'll think about it. Maybe - "

But Colby's shout drowned out Charlie's reply. "Don, look out!"

The warning came too late, and he had no time to react as a dark SUV rammed itself into the back half of the sedan. The impact sent their car shooting forward, both Don and Colby jerking against their seat belts. His head snapped forward, connecting hard with the unyielding steering wheel.

Dazed, Don's grip on his phone slackened and it tumbled from his hand and landed in the foot well on the driver's side, close to the brake pedal. His instincts kicked in and he went on autopilot, spinning the wheel and applying acceleration in the right amounts to get their car straightened out.

"Who the hell is that?" he shouted over the roaring of the truck as it pulled up alongside them. His temple was hammering and he shook his head sharply to try and clear his blurring vision.

Colby removed his Glock from his holster, shifting in his chair to find a shooting position. "I can't get a clear shot!"

Don looked to his left, just in time to see the bulky vehicle swerve in their direction. They were buffeted ferociously sideways, Don fighting to regain control over the steering wheel that tore itself through his hands. Metal screeched in their ears as the cars locked together and glass showered over them as the windows shattered from the assault.

Don risked another glance off the roadway and to the other car. The darkly tinted passenger side window rolled halfway down, revealing the muzzle of a silenced pistol.

"Gun!" he yelled, and ducked his head below the dashboard, forcing himself to drive blindly.

Bullets punctured their sedan's sides and ripped through what was left of their windows. Don looked sideways at Colby, who was in the same position he was, hunkered down out of the line of fire. Glass shards stung the back of Don's neck.

The car started to vibrate violently and a rumbling sound filled the air and Don realized that they were crossing over the tracks on the shoulder of the road. The same ones used to wake sleeping drivers.

The scratched SUV pulled away briefly, and Don saw the gun disappear into the car. He contemplated returning with a shove of their own, but the sedan was flimsy compared to the reinforced truck. It would do more damage to themselves than to the intended target.

For one fleeting second, Don was able to drive without interference and he brought the car into a steady path. Then their attackers rushed back at them and the sound of groaning metal and the smell of burning rubber filled the air.

This time, they were forced completely off the road. They plowed through shrubbery and dust rose like a solid cloud in the air. Don just managed to see the SUV speeding off and away down the road before he lost the fight with his car against physics.

The wheel spun unchecked until the tires locked and their skidding car tipped. Don tensed as his world spun and was turned upside down. The roof, now below them, crumpled inward. The battered sedan scraped across the dirt for a few yards then stopped completely.

Don released his seatbelt and he landed roughly on what used to be the top of his car. Beside him, Colby did the same.

Not surprisingly, Don found his cell phone in complete shambles. The screen was cracked and dark, and a large chunk of the keypad was missing, wires spewing everywhere. His call with his brother had ended with an explosion of action and noise, and Charlie probably was in a complete panic.

He dragged himself through the jagged remains of his window and stumbled to his feet outside of the car. Steam hissed and rose from the demolished engineering on the underside of the vehicle, now facing up. The tires were burnt and still revolving slowly. The wreck was a ridiculous reminder to Don of an upside-down beetle, its legs clawing helplessly at the air.

His head hurt.

Colby stood shakily on the other side, looking relatively unharmed. He looked around at the carnage, returning his weapon to his hip, and then delivered one of his obnoxiously witty, one- liners. "So how many times did _you _fail Driver's Ed?"

Don scowled at him over the rising smoke, "Shut up."

* * *

**~ Izzy**


End file.
